Academic Business
by illuminata79
Summary: A jealous colleague is trying to make Evelyn's life unpleasant while Mick is still haunted by his past. A story in four chapters, rated M for a bit of bad language.
1. Chapter 1

Evelyn is happy in her job at the university - if only it wasn't for one colleague who begrudges her the success and popularity she enjoys. But luckily, Mick is there to lend an ear when she needs to let off steam and to give her support when necessary.

Soundtrack-wise, it's Boss time again. Bruce Springsteen's **"You've Got It"** sums up pretty well what a good partnership means.

_No one ever found it_  
_Ain't no school ever taught it_  
_No one ever made it_  
_Ain't no one ever bought it_

_Baby you've got it_  
_Baby you've got it_  
_Come on and give it to me_

_Ain't no one can break it_  
_There ain't no one can steal it_  
_Ain't no one can fake it_  
_You just know it when you feel it_

_Baby you've got it ..._

_Yeah, you can't read it in a book_  
_And you can't even dream it_  
_Honey, it ain't got a name_  
_You just know it when you see it_

_Baby you've got it ..._

_Well, now listen up_  
_Your reckless love is precious so don't waste it_  
_Can't tell you what they made it of_  
_But I know it when I taste it_

_Baby you've got it ..._

_You've got it in your bones and blood_  
_You're real as real ever was_

_Baby you've got it ..._

* * *

_December 1947_

It was a hot day, and my office door was half open. I was racking my brains trying to finish the paper I had been working on all week, still dissatisfied with some paragraphs of the introduction, but with the heat and a splitting headache and a day that had generally gone wrong everywhere possible, I seemed to have run out of inspiration. That I was still furious at Lewis Pearce, by far the most disagreeable faculty member, for some of his rude comments at the staff meeting earlier this afternoon, didn't do much for my creativity either.

I got along well with most everyone at work, students and staff alike. There was of course the usual bickering about responsibilities and hierarchies, and I had occasional run-ins with some colleagues who didn't share my views, but that mainly took place on a professional level and we were on civilised terms nonetheless.

Pearce was the sole exception. I had never done him any wrong, but for some reason he hated me. Being young and a woman probably was reason enough for that old-fashioned arrogant chauvinist to detest me, but what surely galled him the most was my recent modest success in the academic world while his own career had been stagnant for years.

After my very personal (and almost embarrassingly successful) memoir, I had published several acclaimed articles, while his publications had gone largely unnoticed, and my lectures appeared to be rather popular among the students, whereas complaints about his pompous soporific drone could be heard frequently all over the place. The only person who seemed to like him was Ed, the equally grumpy librarian who considered himself Pearce's confidant because both fed each other the occasional titbits of faculty gossip.

That Roy Sanders - no love lost between him and Pearce either - had recently picked me not only as a contributor but as a co-editor for the new textbook he was planning to establish as a standard work certainly hadn't helped.

Roy had joined the faculty the previous summer semester to head the anthropology department, and we had hit it off instantly, both glad to recognize each other as progressive thinkers eager to move away from inspecting foreign peoples like exotic animals, from dissecting the mores and traditions of the "primitive" cultures arrogantly with a presumptuous attitude, towards a more respectful view of their beliefs and customs.

Roy had also quickly discovered Pearce's mindset and decided not to put him on the textbook team. This man would never help reform outdated structures in our field.

That Roy had chosen me over him, who had been around so much longer than myself, had finally tipped the scales against me, and he had started denouncing me behind my back wherever he could and to anyone who would listen. Having learned the hard way that Roy Sanders was a staunch defender of what Pearce called my "newfangled and womanish" views and teaching methods and even thought my line of work worthy of a whole chapter in the new textbook while openly speaking out against Pearce's brand of "old-school" thinking, he'd changed tactics at some point and begun to take his slander to a personal level.

I had forced myself to turn a deaf ear to the spiteful and sexist remarks he kept making to my face about the colour of my hair or the clothes I wore, and I hardly even bothered to listen if somebody told me that he'd gone on about me again, but this afternoon his behaviour had hit an all-time low, not just at the staff meeting but even more so afterwards.

He and Ed had been having another chat outside his office a few doors down the hall from mine. Most students and colleagues had already gone home, and they had probably thought I had also left for the day. Or they hadn't cared if I heard them when Pearce began wondering aloud to Ed how exactly I had managed to snaffle that job on the textbook team, being young and female and all (plus some unquotable drivel about fiery hair and matching personality). Anyway, what could one expect from a woman who had lived among sex-crazed savages for so long and somehow got her husband killed conveniently to fall into the arms of some adventurer. Even worse, the trollop was actually _living_ with that bloke now. Sharing his bed and everything with no apparent desire to get married, or so one heard. What kind of woman would possibly take some stranger with a shady background in?

I had sat and listened to his rant in an incredulous rage, frozen, but when he started to go on about Mick, I threw my pen onto the desktop furiously, spattering ink all over my paperwork. That little toad didn't know anything about Mick other than bits of gossip. While I didn't actually endeavour to keep our relationship secret, I didn't let on much about it at work either. Except for Roy Sanders and his wife Laura, who had become good friends with both of us, and the rest of the textbook team, no one from university had ever met Mick so far. And none of those who had were remotely close to Pearce and his buddy, so I kept wondering where all those rumours stemmed from.

"Wonder what that fellow does for a living", Ed said.

"Better wonder if he's working at all", Pearce retorted. "Bet he's living off her. Well, I guess she can afford it. I'm sure her husband left her a little nest egg."

I had to muster all my strength not to storm right outside to throttle him. Pearce might not be aware of Mick's condition, but even so he had no business suspecting him of being an idle sluggard living at my expense. Mick had never been a lazy character, and even when he had not yet been able to work again in the conventional sense of a bread-winning job, he had laboured more than ever, working harder than this little prick had ever worked in his whole miserable life, constantly striving and struggling as he tried to regain a life as normal as he possibly could despite his disability.

Reaching a point where he felt strong and hopeful enough to set up a gruelling exercise schedule to perfect walking with his prosthetic leg and to go looking for a new occupation in spite of his handicap was an achievement I found no less admirable than that of any academic prize winner, and finally, all his efforts had been rewarded. He had been lucky with the job at Donnie Snow's little boating shop, which was exactly the kind of place where he'd feel at home, and by now, he was walking so well that he could do mostly without the cane.

But all this tremendous progress was, of course, nothing Pearce would ever be ready to acknowledge. All that mattered to his small mind was conventions and appearances and formalities.

With clenched fists, muttering expletives under my breath, I waited until I heard Ed walking off and Pearce shuffling back into his office.

I wanted to barge into his cluttered, musty little room, fling the door open forcefully, slam it shut behind me with a loud bang and shout at him to keep his freaking nose out of my personal life, but the rational part of me knew that it would be no use. Making such a scene would only serve to confirm his notion that women were way too emotional, hysterical even, for high academic positions.

Instead, I decided to call it a day now. I wouldn't be able to write anything sensible after all the crap I had taken from that unpleasant creature. My head felt like it was about to burst any minute, and it was way past four anyway. I sorted the soiled papers on my desk, threw away the spoiled, ink-spattered top pages from my notepad and locked my office door behind me with a sigh.

Luckily I didn't meet anyone on my way out. I was in no mood for small talk.

Briskly walking to the car park cleared my mind a little. That, and some very unladylike curses and profanities in the car on my way home.

I had no issues with professional criticism as long as it was objective and justified and straightforward, but those unnecessary insults aimed at me as a person, and mostly behind my back, drove me mad, especially now that Pearce had dragged Mick into it. How dare he judge him like that without knowing a single thing about him other than a rumour that we were living together without an official stamp.

I had reached the narrow road leading up to the house by the sea, and my mood improved significantly.

The gnarled old tree in the garden, the friendly appearance of the small building and the bit of blue sea in the distance was a sight that always served to calm me.

Our new home, Mick's and mine, since last summer. Not large, but cosy and comfortable.

We had been living in my flat in the city for about a year, and both of us were more and more dissatisfied with it. The noise from the street, the somewhat cramped space and the dreadfully nosy Mrs. Hoover downstairs whose curious eyes hardly ever missed anything were getting on our nerves, and it was difficult for Mick to negotiate the worn and slippery wooden stairs. There had been a few near accidents, and I was worried he'd fall and seriously hurt himself one day.

And I knew he didn't really feel at home there. He never actually complained about the place, but whenever the weather forced him to stay indoors for a longer period, his mood worsened by the day.

He seemed to sense some remainder of Phillip's presence, and he wasn't entirely wrong about it.

While I had put away the more obvious souvenirs of our marriage, the interior still bore Phillip's unmistakable signature. It had been him who had chosen the furniture, the carpets, the pictures on the walls. I had only been granted the privilege of furnishing my study to suit my own taste, apart from the tall bookcase he'd already owned and the antique side table in the windowed nook.

I wasn't too eager to stay there either. Too many memories of my marriage, not all of them good, and too many memories of the lonely days and nights when I'd had nothing but my typewriter and a half-finished manuscript for company.

We were dreaming of finding something quiet, maybe closer to the sea, but we hadn't even begun to look for a new home when we had a couple of friends, Bob and Jenny Valentine, over for dinner and they mentioned casually that they were going to leave for the U.S. soon because Bob had got an exciting job offer, and did we happen to know anyone interested in moving into their home for the time they'd be spending abroad?

I could hardly believe my ears. They lived in a magnificent little house right on the coast with a small garden at the back, perched atop the rocks. A veritable gem, and perfect for Mick as it was a one-storey structure, so no troublesome stairs to deal with. It would make a wonderful temporary home while we searched for something permanent. Mick and I exchanged a glance and both said, "Well, us!" as if on cue.

So we gladly left my downtown apartment for the Valentines' place as soon as they had got on their flight to California. We felt at home there the very moment we moved in. Bob and Jenny had put most of their stuff into storage, leaving just some basic furniture behind so that we had room for some chosen pieces we'd brought along. There was a large fireplace in the living room, and tall French doors led into the garden at the back of the house from the master bedroom and the living room, giving both pieces a light and airy feeling. And the sea was so close at hand. We could actually see the ocean from our bedroom, and there was a narrow path winding down to the shore from the back of the garden.

The weathered wooden bench at the edge of the cliff top, shadowed by the large old tree, had become a favourite spot for both of us, and this was where I knew Mick would be after I had found the house empty when I entered.

The French doors in the living room were half open. I stopped in the doorway to take off those uncomfortable high-heeled shoes that had been pinching my toes all day long, tossed them on the floor and crossed the garden barefoot, still in my formal white blouse and navy skirt trimmed with white, over to the bench where Mick was sitting, unaware of my arrival.

He was leaning forward, looking out over the sea, eyes slightly narrowed against the sun, lost in thought. The sight of him made my heart beat faster.

Sometimes it was still almost shocking to me just how beautiful he was with his classical profile, the strong nose and high cheekbones, a solemnly pensive look on his expressive face, the warm golden glow of his tanned skin set off so nicely against the lightweight pale green cotton shirt he wore with loose-fitting khaki trousers.

I approached him quietly from behind and softly tickled the back of his neck, just below the pointed hairline. He looked around and up at me in surprise, flashing a smile, reached up to take my hand and kissed it in a loving, tender greeting. I bent to kiss him back and winced as the throbbing behind my forehead became worse.

"You're looking a little tired. Bad day?"

"You can say that again", I growled and went to sit next to him. "The day from hell."

"That twit Pearce again?"

"Who else?"

"Want to talk about it?"

"Later. Now I just want to sit here with you and do absolutely nothing. My head is killing me." I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes, leaning into his shoulder.

His arm encircled me, his hand came to rest on my hip, and he brushed my temple very lightly with his lips. A tingling sensation of warmth encompassed me that had nothing to do with the summery temperatures, and I sighed with a mixture of weariness and pleasure, resting my head against the crook between his neck and chin and one hand on his chest, feeling the taut muscles underneath his shirt.

His familiar presence had a soothing effect on my stressed mind, and as he held me close, I let go of all the anger and trouble of the day for the moment.

How wonderful to have someone to come home to, and to see him so relaxed and happy.

This little paradise by the sea had been the best thing that could have happened, especially to him. No longer being confined to an upstairs apartment, living in a place with a small garden of our own, and so close to the ocean, had done more to lift his spirits than any doctor or therapist or psychologist ever could.

After a while of just letting the world go by drowsily, I sat up and gave Mick a brief account of my awful day.

"I wonder what he thinks he'll gain by slandering me behind my back. My job on the textbook committee? Getting me fired?"

"Roy would never fire you, and Pearce knows that. He's just an asshole with a giant chip on his shoulder who can't accept that other, younger, _female_ people are better and brighter than he is even if, in this case, that is crystal clear to anyone who's got eyes to see."

"I guess you're right. Everyone knows he's a jerk. I shouldn't even be thinking about it."

"Right, you shouldn't", he said, gave my hand an encouraging squeeze and added as an afterthought, "Feel like a swim?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely."


	2. Chapter 2

We strolled down to the beach at a leisurely pace, me in a flowered beach dress and Mick in the dark shorts he always wore for swimming – I wondered if those were still the same he'd used to wear when he went pearl-diving – and Pearce was forgotten for the moment.

We often went down there to unwind after a long workday. Out here, the beach was never very crowded at this time of day, which both of us found very pleasant. No unwanted spectators who'd gawk at Mick, something he could still be very touchy about, just a few other regulars who didn't take much notice of us any more as we made our way to the waterline, Mick leaning on me with the leg off for the last few yards in a well-rehearsed routine before he threw himself into the waves.

Once in the water, he was in his element. He was a much better swimmer even with his leg gone than I was with all my limbs intact. My own swimming style, which he never stopped teasing me about, was not much better than a dog paddle.

We splashed around for a while, Mick chasing me and trying to grab and dunk me. I squealed and laughed, feeling carefree and happy, the cool water and the exercise dispelling my headache and refreshing my spirits.

Later, we stood in waist-deep water not too far from the shore, blissfully tired but not yet ready to leave the pleasant caress of the waves lapping at our bodies. He traced the neckline of my swimsuit with his index finger and chuckled at the goosebumps springing up in response.

"Don't you get me any ideas", I chided him playfully. "There are people watching."

He chuckled again, running a hand down my back to rest just above my buttocks. "They're not gonna see this, are they?"

I laughed and leaned into his chest for a salty kiss. "I hope they …"

Out of the blue, he whipped around with an inarticulate scream, keeping his balance just so, frantically clutched at his lower back and checked his hand as if he expected it to come away bloodied.

His chest was heaving as he gasped, "Take cover, quick! Don't worry, I'm not hurt. Shit, where's Connie?"

I had no idea who Connie was, but one thing was clear. It wasn't me his wide terrified eyes were seeing.

"_Mick!"_ I seized him by the shoulders to shake him back into the here and now. "What is it?"

He stared at me for an instant with a dazed, uncomprehending look, then he slowly got his grip on reality back and turned away, a trembling hand half covering his face.

"Oh, Jesus", he whispered. "I thought I was … back there. Holy shit, I really thought they were getting at us again and that I'd taken a hit."

"But what happened?" I asked. "Why now?"

It had been such a peaceful scene that I couldn't imagine what had triggered the flashback. I knew that he had frequent nightmares from which he'd wake sweating and moaning, but I had never witnessed anything like this.

"Something struck me in the back", he said.

"Are you …"

"No, I'm not hurt, it wasn't hard, perhaps a seagull dropped something. I guess I freaked out because I also got hit from behind back then when … it happened."

_God. _I closed my eyes for a moment. No wonder he had panicked. Those events I knew so little of would never leave him.

If only he talked about it more. I was sure it would help him process the traumatic experience, but he'd never let on more than absolutely necessary.

Nevertheless, I asked, "Who's Connie?"

"Did I say 'Connie'? I can't remember."

I nodded silently, and he went on, "Connie … he was one of my privates. Richard Conway. One of the finest. He and I were the only ones in my squad to survive that fucking jungle. Never heard of him again." He bit his lip as if to keep from tears, and I probed no further, although I wondered what kind of horror lay concealed behind his sparse words.

"Let's get out", was all he said a little later.

As we were heading back to the beach, my eye fell on a family of four among the scattering of regular late-afternoon bathers. I thought I'd never seen them before. The bigger of the two kids was bawling loudly while his mother was apparently giving him a good dressing-down, wrestled something from his hands and threw it away. A little hail of pebbles rained down on the sand in a steep arc.

The moment we emerged from the water and Mick's handicap became obvious, the woman froze for an instant and started shouting at the child even more furiously, pointing to where Mick had just dropped into the sand to towel himself off, still rather white around the mouth from the fright he'd had.

"Looks like the culprit wasn't a bird", I said wryly when I saw that the boy was being frog-marched into our direction.

"Damn, yes. Mommy's making him apologize for hitting a cripple", Mick groaned. "Poor kid, I bet he's never seen an artificial leg before." He quickly finished putting on his leg and threw the towel over it so the intimidating contraption wouldn't scare the boy too much.

Thus he remained sitting in the sand when the woman and the boy approached. The mother greeted us somewhat contritely and said with a grim undertone, "Conrad here would like a word with you, if you don't mind."

When the boy didn't react immediately, she gave his shoulder a rough squeeze that was painful to look at.

Conrad squirmed a little in her tight grip, peered at us anxiously from under a light brown fringe of hair, his lower lip pushed out in a mix of defiance and guilt, and muttered tensely, "I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to hit you with the stone. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Certainly not, young man", Mick said in a solemn but friendly tone. "You only startled me. Don't worry, I guess I'll survive."

Conrad looked at him big-eyed, unsure what to make of his words, and he gave him a quick wink, which made the boy smile a little.

"Really, I'm so sorry", the mother chimed in. "I've told him a million times to stop throwing those stones or he was going to hurt someone, but it's all for nothing. He just won't listen."

Mick shrugged and said good-naturedly, "Oh, well, boys will be boys, won't they? Not much you can do about it."

Conrad grinned shyly, apparently warming to that stranger with the missing leg, but of course this wasn't what his mother wanted him to hear. She began, "Maybe, but still, he's got to learn …"

Her husband had come over, too, with the younger child riding on his shoulders, and interrupted his wife's tirade, "Conrad, have you apologized?"

The boy nodded eagerly.

"Well then, Emma, l-leave him for now. Are y-you really okay?" he asked Mick, who was now struggling to his feet after all.

"Sure", he said. "I've seen a lot worse than this."

"Y-yes, I b-believe you have." I could see the man was forcing himself not to look at what was behind the towel Mick held loosely draped in front of his right leg.

Conrad was not so squeamish. He cocked his head to one side and tried to peer around the towel, and finally he asked with genuine interest, "What happened to your leg, Mister? Were you a pirate?"

His mother drew an audible breath before she hissed, _"Conrad!" _I half expected her to slap him in the face, but she restrained herself.

"It's okay. Let him ask his questions", Mick assured her. "I don't mind."

Encouraged, Conrad ventured to inquire, "Did a shark bite it off? Or was it a cannonball?""

His mother shook her head in resignation, and his father blushed and stammered, "I'm sorry. I d-daresay he's heard t-too many f-f-fanciful p-p-pirate stories."

Mick just laughed it off. "Well, it was more like a cannonball in fact. But there was a time when people said I'd swim with sharks", he said, and the boy's eyes became large.

"Really? Was it … awww, _Mommy!"_

She had seized him by the shoulder again and said firmly, "Now stop nagging, Conrad. You have pestered this gentleman enough for today. We're going home now. Sorry for being such a nuisance", she added with an apologetic look at Mick.

"Nothing to be sorry for", he said. "It was nice talking to you. And to Conrad."

Off they went, the father stroking Conrad's hair stealthily as if trying to make up for his mother's over-strictness.

"Awful woman", Mick said scornfully. "I'm really feeling sorry for the poor lad."

He watched them leave with an expression I couldn't quite place, as if the encounter had struck some hidden chord with him, and we went home not much later.

* * *

Mick was more shaken by the pebble incident than he was ready to admit.

He didn't talk about it any more, but his nightmares came back with a vengeance in the week that followed and had him twitching and jerking and moaning in his sleep until he awoke in the dead of night and lay silent and exhausted until morning came.

I tried once more to persuade him to tell me about the dreams because I was still convinced it would help him get all those horrors out of his system, but he flatly refused.

"Do you think I can't stomach it?" I asked. "I can stomach quite a lot, you know. You don't need to protect me."

"This is not about what you can stomach, Evelyn. I'm not sure if _I_ can. You know, telling you won't help me. Talking about it would only make it all the more real."

His face clouded over darkly, and I didn't broach the subject again, but I kept watching him closely and hoped the stirred-up memories were not going to plunge him into another bout of depression.

I think it was his work that saved him.

This time of year was the shop's busiest season, and from what he told me about his packed workdays, he didn't have much time to think of anything not related to boats and fishing, and after a while, the shadow of the war faded for the moment and his nights calmed down.

Things also got quieter at the university.

Pearce was suspiciously tame at the next couple of staff meetings, and Roy and I and the team made good progress with the textbook.

Not long until summer break now, just two weeks to go until the students would be leaving and the department would gather on the last night of semester for the traditional dinner party.

Roy had proudly let me in on what nobody else knew yet: A renowned American colleague, Bradley Claymore, was going to be in town for some kind of symposium and had agreed to join us for the dinner party.

"He's brilliant, Evelyn, just brilliant! And he's not one of those people so in love with their own voice that they don't notice everyone in the audience has nodded off half an hour before. He'll give a short and sweet speech, no more than fifteen minutes, and then it's just a nice little dinner and a lot of opportunity to chat with him, and with each other. What do you think?"

"Fantastic! You know how much I like his work."

"Oh, and by the way, I'm going to invite everyone to bring their spouses. I think that'll make for a nice change. And it will prevent us from talking shop all the time." He grinned. "Oh … and you bring Mick along, please - even if he's not a spouse, strictly speaking. I'll introduce him in a way that nobody's tender feelings of decency will be hurt." He added something under his breath that sounded like "those bigoted buggers".

I grinned, too. Roy was really priceless, as a boss and as a friend.

All I had to do now was convince Mick to come along. He didn't particularly like venturing into "my" world, but I had an idea that I thought would work.

Considering that he meanwhile knew, and liked, Roy and Laura and some of the others, I hoped it wouldn't be so difficult to persuade him as it had been the first time around.

To say that Mick had not been keen on meeting my colleagues then would be the understatement of the century.


	3. Chapter 3

_November 1946_

All I wanted this evening was to collapse on the sofa to wind down a little and then turn in early.

The first meeting of the textbook working group Roy had recently formed had been very interesting, very fruitful … and very long. It was half past seven when I climbed the stairs to the apartment without thinking to avoid the creaky spot in the last step below the first-floor landing.

I hoped to God Mrs. Hoover wouldn't be on her usual post so late in the day, but alas, her door was ajar and swung fully open just when I thought I had managed to sneak past.

"Good evening, Mrs. Spence! My, you're looking tired, love. Are you getting enough sleep, dear? Don't tell me you have been working until now!" She clucked her tongue in disapproval. "I say, that job of yours can't be the right thing for a young lady."

"Good evening, Mrs. Hoover", I said hastily before she could start recommending I should rather stay at home and raise a bunch of children.

"And I've been meaning to tell you for so long how glad I am that your young man isn't quite as thin any more. And I'm even happier that he's walking so nicely again", she went on. "What a relief that must be. So now you can go ahead planning that wedding, eh?" She flashed me a conspiratorial grin.

When Mick had been with me for a few weeks, she had begun to ask about "this handsome young man I've seen with you so often lately", wondering aloud whether he was my brother or my cousin. I had been tempted to say he was to silence her, but I didn't want to lie to her, scandal or no scandal.

I knew the way to her heart without raising her well-plucked eyebrows too much and had told her in a confidential voice, "To be honest, Mrs. Hoover, Mr. Carpenter is my fiancé. I know it's … unusual to, um, live together before marrying, but he's been badly wounded in the Pacific war and only just got out of hospital with nowhere to go."

Since then, she had been entertaining some weirdly romantic war-hero fantasies about him, asking repeatedly about the rank he'd held and the unit he'd been in, the battles he'd seen and the lives he'd saved, and of course she couldn't wait to hear about the wedding date either.

She'd probably have succumbed to a heart attack on the spot if she had been aware that we had, in fact, no such plans, so I only smiled enigmatically in response to her question and excused myself, saying I was indeed very tired.

I walked up the last flight of stairs hastily and was quick to close the door behind me.

"Somebody following you?" Mick asked with an amused twitch of his mouth as he popped out of the kitchen to greet me.

"Hoover Alert", I said, grimacing, and he laughed.

I stepped out of my shoes and walked into the kitchen in my stocking feet, smiling when I saw that Mick had already set the table and dished up cold meat and cheese and a jar of pickles.

He was coming up behind me and brushed my ear with his lips before he went on to toast some bread. "Thought you might be hungry."

"I could eat a horse right now", I confessed and gratefully sat down, still in my black-and-white dress.

I waited until we had finished eating to speak of what had been announced at the end of today's meeting.

"Roy's invited us for a barbecue next Saturday", I said.

"How nice of him", he replied evenly. "Are you going?"

"It's not just _me_ who's invited", I said pointedly. _"Us_ wasn't referring to the working group alone. He wants everyone to bring their partners."

"Does he." He didn't sound very thrilled.

"Yes, indeed. And _I'd_ love you to come along, too".

"Uh … no, Evelyn, I don't think I'm feeling up to meeting your colleagues and your boss. I'm no match for them."

"Why?" I asked somewhat heatedly. "We're not all pompous asses, you know. Roy's a nice guy, not that kind of arrogant academic show-off you're imagining. I really want you to meet him. I think you might even like him."

"Why's he so keen on me coming? Thinks I'll go well with all the trophy wives, does he? 'Our special guest tonight, a genuine South Sea pearl trader. What a fine catch. Just look at him, isn't he a nice specimen? Pity though that he's a little damaged'." His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "No, thanks, Evelyn. I have no need for that kind of thing."

"Now come on, Mick, what's the matter with you? It's just a little informal garden party we're talking about, without any social pretences. No speeches, no guests of honour, no trophy wives. No pearl traders on display. We're all pretty normal people, you know."

"Aren't they all going to faint when you show up with a guy you're not even married to, and tattooed like a sailor on top of everything?"

I heaved a deep sigh. "There'll be no more than five or six couples, and nobody is going to be shocked about your seahorse or the fact that we're shacking up together. Worst that can happen is someone asking when we're going to tie the knot, but …"

"So you're regretting it after all, that we decided we didn't need to marry?"

"No, for God's sake! Where'd you get that idea? It's just that I don't go about telling everyone at work that we're not married and haven't got any plans to. You know the university is still a rather conservative environment, generally speaking. I don't think anyone in my working group gives a damn about our marital status, though."

"They shouldn't either. Better mind their own _academic_ business." He scowled.

"Oh please", I said, gradually getting more and more annoyed myself. Why did a perfectly normal invitation for a harmless little barbecue have to turn into such an issue? I knew he wasn't fond of social events, but couldn't he just once overcome his aversion and come along for my sake?

"Is it really such a big deal when I ask you to attend a freaking barbecue?"

He shot me a dirty look, grabbed his cane without a word, got up from his chair abruptly and walked out the kitchen door as quickly as he could, his back stiff and rigid, his irritation aggravated by the fact that his disability made a brisk and dignified exit rather difficult.

I felt a little sorry for him in spite of myself but decided it would be better to let him smolder in silence for a while before trying to sort things out with him.

I cleared the table instead, making a good deal of noise, and wondered why he was so disinclined to connect with anyone from the university.

Was Phillip's appallingly supercilious behaviour and presumptuous attitude what was foremost in his mind when he thought of academics? I was still ashamed whenever I remembered that evening on the porch of our island house, when he had been so incredibly arrogant and rude to Mick.

Or was there some older, deeper reason for his dislike of "academic business"?

It was clearly more than his usual reticence around strangers, but this wasn't a good moment to ask questions.

In the end, he grudgingly agreed to join Roy's party with me, and when we spent a balmy summer evening on Roy and Laura's flower-lined patio, he seemed to enjoy himself quite a bit, talking very animatedly to Laura and Max Lindsey's wife.

I was more than surprised when I heard him tell them a story or two about his years in the Trobriands and couldn't resist a little jape when we got home late that night.

"So the pearl trader got along well with the trophy wives after all?"

"I guess I deserved that", he grumbled. "I must admit they were much nicer than I thought they'd be, but I still have to say I prefer red-haired anthropologists."

"How very reassuring."


	4. Chapter 4

_December 1947_

The room was gradually filling up with people, the men in black tie, the women in shimmering dresses, hair done up elaborately. Some of them were hardly recognizable, dolled up like that.

He blinked twice when the next couple entered. Could that really be drab Frannie Coltrane over there, in a low-cut wine-coloured satin dress, a matching stole and her brown hair all curled? Her little blond husband looked a little funny in his tuxedo, though, very skinny and shorter than she was in her heels. An odd pair, these two.

Ian Jellicoe and that dick Roy Sanders were immaculate in their fine garb and gleaming black shoes. One had to admit the new head of department wasn't exactly an ugly man, which made him all the more suspicious in a way. Sanders's shapely dark-haired wife wasn't bad either, the Celtic type with blue eyes and pale, translucent skin.

There was Max Lindsey, his straw-coloured hair plastered down on his head with tons of pomade to keep it from sticking up the way it usually did, and hell, Ann Tibbitt was absolutely gorgeous in her ocean-coloured gown. She really ought to go without those stern glasses and dowdy clothes more often.

Next to come in was a single woman.

He was almost a little disappointed when he saw her walk in. He'd have bet his gold watch that she would have the nerve to bring that bloke she was screwing. But no, there she was, alone, in rich green silk, bare of any jewellery except for pearl earrings and a single large pearl at her throat, her hair swept up in a simple but elegant do.

She might be a floozy, but she did have style, and she was not unattractive, if one cared for the type, with a nice figure and that flaming hair and a cute little nose.

Of course, she didn't deign to look at him. She strode right over to chat with Sanders, as if her rightful place was at his side. Pretentious little bitch.

He sipped his champagne and kept circling the room slowly so nobody would notice that there was hardly anyone who'd stop to exchange more with him than just a few polite words, hoping they would soon move on to the festive dinner table that had been set up in the adjoining room.

He was curious about that illustrious guest speaker. Sanders had dropped the bomb just this morning that Bradley Claymore, of Harvard fame, would be their guest of honour tonight.

If he was honest, Claymore's approach wasn't his cup of tea, but he was very well known in the field, and it couldn't hurt to meet such a luminary face to face. And besides, it would be nice to see a fellow American, having been stuck down here for ages, in a foreign land and an academic cul-de-sac where nobody seemed to recognize his qualities.

He scanned the room and saw a new arrival whom he couldn't place.

Was Claymore here already, had he made a quiet, inconspicuous entrance?

The man, tall, well-built and immaculately dressed, was keeping to the back of the room, close to the wall, and seemed to be searching for a spot to sit down for a moment.

Funny behaviour, he thought, shouldn't someone in his position know that there are no seats at a champagne reception?

The stranger seemed to have realized the same and was now leaning against the wall by one of the high windows, watching people mill about the room, occasionally drinking from the fluted glass in his hand.

There was something sneaky about the way he stayed on the sidelines, lurking in the background, he found.

Sanders and his wife, Max Lindsey, and the red-haired trollop crossed the room to greet the man, who left his place by the window to meet them halfway.

Now it became clear why the unfamiliar guest had been on the lookout for a chair.

He remembered what he'd read - Claymore had been a fighter pilot in the war and lucky to survive a horrible crash, which must be why he walked with a pronounced limp that hinted at a bad knee injury or worse.

Other than that, the unfamiliar guest's movements were naturally elegant. Even the swaying limp had a kind of awkward charm to it.

With a mixture of envy and admiration burning in his heart, he watched as the dark-haired stranger shook hands with the men and gracefully kissed the ladies' hands, not without a twinkle of irony in his eyes, conversing in a low dark voice with a somewhat faded U.S. accent.

As the party of four flitted on from the American, he seized the chance and walked over.

"Good evening", he said boldly, "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you, too", said the stranger. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Pearce, Lewis Pearce. Cultural anthropology."

"Oh, _yes",_ the man said, as if he'd suddenly remembered. "Does that mean you work closely with Roy Sanders and Evelyn Spence?"

"Well, not actually, no", Pearce replied. "They are … very good at what they do, but we don't always … agree on certain aspects."

"I see. So what is your …"

Pearce launched into a lengthy monologue before the other man had finished speaking and finally ended, "You see, we differ on many levels. Those younger people are of the more … modern variety. And … well, how to put it … on a private level, I'm afraid Mrs. Spence is involved in some … some relationship I personally think a bit … inappropriate."

The American inclined his head ever so slightly, narrowing his large vivid eyes by a fraction, as if to ask what the dickens Pearce was meaning by "inappropriate".

"Some kind of ... adventurer, a rather uncouth type, I would say. Wonder if the bloke even has a job. Well, it's probably none of my business anyway", he hurried to assure when the stranger's face assumed a look of disapproval. Apparently, he wasn't susceptible to gossip, and Pearce hastily went on, "Enough of me, this is supposed to be your night after all. How is your work coming along?"

"Very well, thank you", the man smiled, the fine creases that radiated from the corners of his eyes deepening. "But let's not talk of work any more tonight. I have to confess I tend to find that rather boring if it gets too much at social events."

Pearce was dumbstruck for a second. When he had regained his wits, he said, "Always good to meet a fellow American, even if I'm only half a Yankee. My father was Scottish, but my mother hailed from Denver, and I was born there. I've always felt a lot more American than anything else. I wished they'd have let me fight for my country in the war, but I was too old when it started. You have seen action, or so I've heard?"

"Too much of it", said his counterpart, tapping his knee to produce a little hollow metallic sound.

Jesus, the poor sod wore a leg brace, or was it as bad as a prosthetic leg? No, Pearce decided, he was walking too well for that.

Pearce was about to start discussing the war in detail when Sanders's voice rose above the hum of conversation.

"Dear colleagues and friends, may I ask for a little moment of silence?" The noise ebbed away quickly, and the guests turned to where Sanders stood.

"Please welcome our special guest, Professor Bradley Claymore. I am very glad and honoured that you are with us tonight, Brad." He nodded to the man next to him, a nondescript short figure with greying brown hair and a close-cropped beard who smiled shyly when people began to applaud the famous researcher.

It was all Pearce could do to keep his jaw from dropping and his mouth from gaping open.

If the little man over there was the famed Bradley Claymore, who on earth had he been talking to all the time?

Claymore said a few warm words of thanks and praise to Sanders, who then took over again and asked everyone to proceed into the neighbouring room to be seated for dinner.

Pearce hesitated for a moment before he got going, and so did the unknown man with the dark wavy hair and the limp.

Sanders approached them with a particularly smug smile as they entered the dining area and said, "Ah, I see you've already met my good friend Michael Carpenter, Lewis! You know, he's not technically an anthropologist, but he has a good deal of intercultural experience and is quite well-travelled, so I wanted to give him the opportunity to listen to Brad Claymore speaking. Hope the two of you had a good chat. Do come along now, please. Lewis, if you'll take the seat next to Ann over there? Mick, you'll be joining my table, right here between Laura and Evelyn Spence. I'm sure you will enjoy Evelyn's company."

"Certainly. I've seen her before, you know." The American grinned inexplicably.

"Oh yes, I know." Sanders winked at his friend.

The moment they walked off, the penny dropped, and Pearce realized with distaste who the well-dressed, smart-looking stranger actually was.

Again and again, the little slut made him marvel at her temerity. And Sanders just looked on.

"Really, the world's going to hell in a handcart", he muttered to himself as he took his place, pretending he had not uttered a word when Ann Tibbitt gave him a questioning look.

* * *

As Mick and Roy took their seats to each side of me, their eyes were sparkling in a way that clearly told me our little charade had worked even better than expected.

Pearce was still standing where they had left him, his mouth hanging half open, gawking at us for a moment, apparently trying to digest that my lover wasn't a seedy unwashed yokel or a shaggy bearded caveman with no manners to speak of, before he stumbled over to sit down at his table.

Good to see that he was now wedged between my resolute friend Ann Tibbitt and Frannie Coltrane's tongue-tied husband. Neither was very likely to lend a willing ear when he started to let fly about me.

Judging from the pinched look on his face, he certainly didn't enjoy the evening, and when he left so early that it was almost impolite, nobody missed him.

When we left, way after midnight, I whispered my thanks to Mick.

He only grinned. "There's nothing quite like putting a jerk into his place, and even more so if it's for you."


End file.
